


Fugue State

by Prodigal_sonshine



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Amnesia, Dissociation, Kidnapping, Kidnapping??, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Memory Loss, Prodigal son, what did i do to our boy, you'll just have to read and find out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prodigal_sonshine/pseuds/Prodigal_sonshine
Summary: Malcolm wakes up with no idea where he is, and no memory of how he got there. What happened, and why can't he remember?
Comments: 20
Kudos: 80





	1. Awareness

Malcolm’s awareness returned to him in the same way a river smooths a stone: fluidly, slowly, and with force. The first thing he noticed was a breeze, unusually cool against his fevered face, then his bare feet, and wet clothes that clung to his body.

A car thundered past, startling Malcolm to full consciousness. He realized for the first time that he was really, really cold. He hugged himself tightly and looked around, hoping for some kind of indicator as to where he was.

He stood on the shoulder of a highway, with tall, lush forest in all of its autumnal splendor surrounding him. Below, he could hear the roaring of a river; what river, he didn’t know, and he didn’t recognize the highway either. As he looked around, he noticed that he had stopped walking, though he wasn’t sure he remembered walking in the first place.

Malcolm took a breath, wracking his brain in an attempt to remember how he got here, only to find a whole lot of nothing. His last memory was in his apartment. He had fed Sunshine, getting ready for bed, then…what? What had happened?

Hoping against hope, Malcolm felt in his pockets, hoping to find his phone. Finding nothing, he could only assume that he had either left it behind or had lost it somehow. Judging by the way his hair was plastered to his face and his clothes stuck to his wiry frame, he figured he must have gone through the river.

Speaking of his clothes, what was he _wearing_? His mother would kill him if she ever saw him like this. A gray, XXL T-shirt with faded lettering had turned dark with water, and a far too big pair of blue jeans were held on his hips by what seemed to be a frayed piece of twine.

Another car rolled by. Malcolm shivered, teeth beginning to chatter, and decided that the best course of action would be to follow, hoping that maybe he could find help, and more importantly, warmth.

Malcolm had nearly given up hope by dusk. The lack of light from the setting Sun caused the temperature to plummet. Malcolm’s teeth chattered as he moved forward, step by agonizing step, aware only of just how _cold_ he was. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he knew that hypothermia wasn’t far off, but there was nowhere for him to rest, and certainly nowhere for him to get warm. So, he kept walking.

Another car rushed by, but this time, red brake lights flashed not too far ahead, and the bright reverse lights blinded Malcolm briefly before the vehicle stopped next to him. A bearded man leaned towards the passenger side door and rolled the window down. “It’s a little chilly for a late-night walk, there, son. Y’alright?”

Malcolm opened his mouth to lie, to insist he was fine, but he had a feeling that the kindly man in the Subaru wouldn’t fall for it. “In truth, I uh…” he paused and laughed softly, “there’s a lot wrong, actually. Can you point me to somewhere warm?”

The man unlocked the car door with a soft _click_ , “Hop on in.”

Malcolm hesitated before stiffly getting into the car. The warmth of the heater enveloped him immediately, making his body ripple with pins and needles. The man scanned him up and down before turning up the fan. “Stick your hands up there, get warm. There’s a truck stop not far from here, it’s got beds, showers, a diner—”

At the mention of food, Malcolm’s stomach growled loudly. He wondered how long it had been since he ate. Pushing the thought to the side, he put his hands against the fan and closed his eyes, tension that he didn’t know he was carrying leaving his shoulders.

The man began to drive. He was silent for few moments. Malcolm took the time to assess him. He was broad-shouldered, strong, with a graying beard and a face worn by the Sun. He had smile lines around his eyes and wore a faded baseball cap for a team Malcom had never heard of. After a few moments, the man eyed Malcolm in his peripheral. “So, you want to tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Malcolm laughed softly, “I really couldn’t tell you. I don’t remember much of anything from the past…what day is it?”

The man frowned slightly, “It’s November 27th, if my cell phone is to be trusted.”

Malcolm paled. “You’re sure?”

The man nodded solemnly.

Malcolm took a deep, shuddering breath. “Two weeks. I don’t remember anything from the past two weeks.”

The man looked at him head on, then, his eyes sparkling with concern. “Well, let’s start with a name. The name’s Andy, I’m a logger up here.”

Malcolm tried to keep his breath steady as he answered, “Malcolm. My name is Malcolm. I’m a profiler for the New York City Police Department. Can you tell me exactly where ‘up here’ is?”

“Well, sure. We’re right near Dover-Foxcroft, just along the Sebec Lake.”

Malcolm’s breath hitched as he searched through his memory of US geography. “I’m in _Maine_?”

\-----------------

Andy pulled up to the truck stop, a small two-story building that looked like it’d been there since the 19th century. The parking lot was sparsely populated, and an old, seemingly unused gas pump stood on the right side. Malcolm was warmer, but accepted Andy’s help getting out of the car. He winced as his bare feet walked along loose gravel. The two men went inside the truck stop.

The interior was much warmer, both in temperature and in atmosphere. A log fireplace burned gently in the corner, surrounded by tables and chairs, with one sofa directly in front of the fire. Near the door was a long counter, populated by unused, clean dishware and condiment sets. A few of the stools were occupied, largely by men who looked a lot like Andy, and by the way the men greeted each other, Malcolm assumed they worked together.

At the register stood a large, grandmotherly woman with her gray hair done up in a neat braid. She smiled warmly at the two men, but her face quickly darkened with concern upon seeing Malcolm. Almost immediately, she stepped out from behind the counter and pulled out a stool for Malcolm to sit on.

“Do I look that bad?” Malcolm joked, gingerly settling himself on the seat.

The woman looked to Andy, who shrugged, “Found him walkin’ along the highway ‘bout three miles back. Says he doesn’t remember how he got here. Looked near frozen to death.”

As Andy was speaking, the woman poured a glass of water and two cups of coffee. One cup she set aside for Andy, and the water and second cup she pushed towards Malcolm, who felt his ears go red, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I—”

“On the house,” the woman’s voice was gentle, but certainly left no room for argument. Malcolm nodded and took a slow sip of the coffee, feeling its warmth settle in his stomach and sighing softly.

“Darlene, I’d like to pay for Malcolm here to spend the night,” Andy said, pulling out his wallet. Malcolm coughed, nearly choking on his coffee. The two friends looked at him quizzically before returning their attention to each other. The woman, Darlene, accepted Andy’s payment and handed a key to Malcolm.

“Andy, I really—you don’t have to—” Malcolm took a breath, steadying his anxiety before finishing his sentence, “thank you.”

Andy smiled and stuck out his hand, Malcolm gripped it firmly and they shook. With that, the older man tipped his hat to the other two, “I’m off to the wife. See you tomorrow, fellas,” he called to the men at the dining counter, who seemed unfazed by the wiry, nearly hypothermic man at the end of the bar. They murmured their goodbyes and waved, and then Andy was gone.

Darlene turned her attention to Malcolm. “What would you like to eat, son?”

Malcolm wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, savoring the warmth. He thought for a moment, “hot soup would be nice.”

The woman nodded and left to the kitchen. Malcolm heard her tell the order to her cook before returning to the front. She checked on the other diners, then came back to Malcolm, “So, what can you tell me about yourself?” She asked the question nonchalantly, but Malcolm could feel the burning curiosity behind the concern in her voice.

Malcolm drank his water greedily, shocking himself with how dry his mouth and throat had been. Setting the empty glass down, he looked at Darlene. “My name is Malcolm Bright, I’m a profiler for the New York City Police Department. I don’t know how I got here. My working theory is some type of fugue, though I can’t imagine what may have triggered it, as dissociative fugues are usually…” he trailed off, noting the look of confusion in the woman’s face. “Anyway, the short version is that I ended up in Maine somehow, and I don’t remember the past two weeks.”

The woman nodded, concerned. A bell rang from the kitchen and she left Malcolm briefly, returning with a small bowl of chicken soup. Malcolm ate slowly, knowing that eating too quickly would not work out in his favor.

After he was finished eating, Darlene took his bowl and pointed him to the stairs, “You’ll be in room 15, there’s a shower in there. Unfortunately, I don’t have any spare sets of clothes.”

Malcolm shrugged, smiling, “That’s alright, these are mostly dry by now anyway.” He started up the stairs.

The room Malcolm entered was small, but cozy. A radiator buzzed quietly on the opposite wall, and the twin-sized bed was made neatly. To his right was the bathroom, which he headed for immediately. Upon seeing himself in the mirror, he did a double-take.

His hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed or combed in weeks, and his beard had grown to become far more than the five o’clock shadow he usually allowed. As he undressed for a hot shower, he noticed healing cuts and bruises. One of the cuts looked fresher than the others, and he put his fingers to it gently, sucking air through his teeth as a stinging pain accompanied the contact. A flash of memory came to the forefront of his mind, and he stumbled back. He tried to hold on to the memory, but it was gone as soon as it had come. But a question still lingered: how had he gotten these marks? Malcolm decided it best to table the question for now, and decided to look at it again in the morning, once he had gotten sleep. With a start, he realized that he hadn’t called his mother or his team since he had at the truck stop. He hadn’t had his phone when he came to, and if he’s been gone two weeks, they must be worried out of their minds.

Malcolm’s thoughts raced, his breathing beginning to pick up. He turned the shower on and forced himself to breathe. A nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered, condemning him for not calling as soon as he arrived. Another voice, one he didn’t recognize, whispered back in an eerily calm, gentle voice, _They never looked for you. They never cared for you as I could…You’ll come around eventually, dear Malcolm._

Malcolm looked at himself in the mirror, wide eyed and cornered. He forced himself to get into the shower, and the water’s heat shocked him back into his body.

One hot shower later, Malcolm was back in the all-too-big clothes, and he switched on the small TV that resided just opposite the bed.

“…search still continuing as the NYPD calls in the help of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the missing case of Malcolm Bright. The NYPD suspects foul play, but has not given any further commentary on a list of suspects, nor have they indicated any lead on a location. The search has now expanded to the entire Northeast as continued searches turn up no leads. For Nightly News, I’m—”

Malcolm shut the TV off and leaned forward. _Foul play_. The police suspected foul play. Had someone broken into his apartment? Had Malcolm been kidnapped?

Malcolm practically leapt for the phone on the side table, calling the first number that came to his head. He prayed silently that the other party would pick up.

A soft _click_ followed by a disgruntled “Lieutenant Arroyo” caused Malcolm to choke up, tears he didn’t know were there falling down his cheeks.

“ _Gil._ ”


	2. Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil and the team are on their way, and Malcolm begins to have slivers of memory, but can he hold onto them strong enough to keep himself safe?

“ _Gil_.”

The single word had the lieutenant on his feet in a matter of seconds, because he recognized the voice on the other end; it was a voice he hadn’t heard in two weeks, a voice he wasn’t sure he’d ever hear again, but there was no doubt.

“Kid? Malcolm, is that you?”

A broken sob came from the other end of the line, “Gil, I’m so _sorry_ I haven’t called, I just woke up a few hours ago and I didn’t know where I was and—”

Gil stopped the kid midsentence, “Bright, _Bright,_ it’s okay. God, kid, we thought you were dead. Just tell me where you are; I’ll come get you. Are you hurt; do you need the hospital?” Gil asked, knowing full well that the kid wouldn’t willingly go to the hospital under any circumstances.

Silence from the other end of the line. Gil’s mouth went dry, “Bright? Bright, are you still with me?”

A shuddering breath, the sound of springs shifting, another breath. “Yeah, I’m…I’m here, Gil.”

The older man nodded, “Okay. Tell me where you are,” Gil grabbed his keys off the hook, sliding on his shoes as he spoke, “and I’ll come and pick you up.”

A pause, “I’m in Maine, Gil.”

The older man’s heart dropped, “ _Maine?_ Good God, kid, how did you end up there?”

The kid’s breath hitched and Gil backtracked, “Okay, okay, kid. Don’t worry about that right now. Get me the address, and I’ll come get you first thing. Hell, I’ll leave now if you want me to.”

There was a soft laugh on the end of the line, “No, that’s okay, Gil, I don’t want you to—”

“Kid, if you even _imply_ that you’re causing me trouble, I’m going to…” Gil paused, pinching the bridge of his nose, “never mind. I’m on my way. What’s the address?”

“I don’t know, exactly, it’s a truck stop near Dover-Foxcroft. Out of the way. There’s a lake nearby…”

“I’m on it. Don’t go anywhere, Bright, you hear me? Stay where you are. I’ll get the team on it right now and we’ll be there for you as soon as we can.”

Malcolm let out a soft breath, “Yeah, okay, Gil. I—thank you.”

“God, kid, I’m just happy you’re safe.”

>>>>>>>>

Malcolm hung up the phone and fought back the rising lump in his throat. He was going _home_. They had looked for him, they were going to find him.

He laid down on the bed, and the exhaustion from the day overwhelmed him. It didn’t take long for him to drift off.

Of course, sleeping had never really been a peaceful experience for him.

>>>>>>>>

_“They never cared for you as I could…You’ll come around eventually, dear Malcolm.” It was a man’s voice, certainly, but where was it coming from? Malcolm groaned softly and woke, ears ringing and with a less than pleasant headache blooming behind his eyes. His vision cleared after a few moments, and he became aware of his surroundings._

_He was laying down, for one thing. The surface was hard, unforgiving, and he felt the full force of it on his hips and shoulder blades. His arms were spread wide, held down by thick, leather straps on two smaller tables. Above him shined a ceiling light, softly buzzing with electricity. Heavy footsteps surrounded him, but he couldn’t find their owner. A man, behind him, chuckled. Malcolm suddenly felt the insistent pressure of cold silver on his cheek, the tip of a knife blade, calmly and sternly ensuring that Malcolm keeps still._

_The man came into his periphery, and the knife was lifted. “The Son returns,” there was a smile in the man’s voice, but it was not one of pleasure; it was one of deep, cold sadism that chilled Malcolm to his core._

_Malcolm found his voice and called out hoarsely, “Who are you?”_

_A quick flash of silver answered him and he cried out, feeling blood drip down his cheek._

_The man spoke in a low growl, “You will speak when spoken to, and no other time,” he paused, as if to savor the power that he held over Malcolm, “but, to answer your question: my name does not matter. What matters here, is you.”_

_Malcolm bit his tongue, his mind whirling with questions. The answer implied that he knew Malcolm, but Malcolm was sure he had never met this man before. After a few moments, he decided that his best tool was his voice, and he’d be damned if he weren’t going to use it. He needed more information if he was going to construct an accurate profile and find a way out of here._

_“What about me?”_

_Malcolm didn’t see the knife this time. It stuck itself into his ribs without warning, withdrawing a gasp from the profiler._

_The man brought his face into view, though Malcolm couldn’t quite see it, backlit by the light above him. He smelled like cigarettes, though, and Malcolm tried to resist the temptation to wrinkle his nose._

_“What did I tell you about speaking out of turn, boy?” the man scolded Malcolm as one would a misbehaving dog, and Malcolm gritted his teeth at the thought, but did not answer. The man continued, “It seems I’ll have to teach you some manners before we can continue.”_

_Malcolm didn’t need to see the man’s face to envision the creepy, Cheshire Cat smile plastered to it._

>>>>>>>>>>>

Malcolm woke with a start, crying out as he leapt out of bed, no restraints to keep him down. For a moment, all he knew was the fading night terror that had overcome him before he slowly remembered where he was. Desperately, he tried to cling to the events of the nightmare only to feel them slip away. He huffed in frustration, “Okay, maybe there _was_ something to trigger the fugue,” he lamented. He took a quick look at himself in the bathroom mirror and ran his fingers through his too-long hair. He’d need a haircut immediately when he got back, or his mother would take shears to the mop of brown hair without a second thought.

With nothing to pack and confident that his team was on their way, Malcolm went downstairs.

The diner was sparsely populated once again; regular customers had gone off to work and the odd tourist sat at the counter, sipping morning coffee. At the register was Darlene, who winked at Malcolm as she talked a man sporting a brown coat and long pants whose face he couldn’t see. “Malcolm, dear, this is a county sheriff. I called the department last night after I saw that news report, I would have done so sooner had I realized you were a missing person.”

Malcolm raised a hand dismissively, “I didn’t know I was a missing person until last night either, ma’am. It’s okay.”

“Call me Darlene, boy. All this ma’am nonsense is makin’ me feel old.”

Malcolm laughed softly and turned his attention to the sheriff, who was still facing Darlene, “Thank you for coming, but I was able to get a hold of one of my coworkers, they’re on their way to pick me…up.”

Malcolm’s voice faltered as the man turned, and panic rose in his throat like bile. Instinctively, Malcolm took a hasty step back and nearly fell, suddenly unable to breathe.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow, concerned, “Y’alright there, boy?”

Malcolm nodded, attempting to recover. He turned to Darlene, “I forgot something, upstairs, I’ll um, I’ll be right back,” he spoke haltingly, as if each word pained him. Without waiting for an answer, Malcolm dashed back up the stairs to his room and locked the door. He lunged for the phone and dialed Gil’s number.

He knew that man. That man was in his night terror, he was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the love on the first chapter <3 <3  
> This is still kind of formulating as a concept so forgive any periods of bad writing. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated ^-^


	3. Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team finds Malcolm, but he's not entirely...himself.

By the time Gil picked up, Malcolm’s panic had fully set in. His chest was being compressed, his lungs unable to expand. His breaths came in short, constrained gasps, and his words were breathless as he tried to speak to Gil, “Gil—guy, he, he took— _he’s here_ ,” was all he managed to say before his stomach rebelled and he retched, bile and the remnants of the previous night’s dinner decorating the motel floor as he fell to his knees.

Dimly, Malcolm was aware of Gil’s voice on the other end of the receiver, asking him if he was safe, if he was okay, telling him to stay put because they’re almost there, but he couldn’t find the will or the strength to do anything but breathe heavily into the phone.

“Bright, I need you to breathe. We found the truck stop, we’re twenty minutes out. Just _stay there_ , you hear me?” Gil’s voice was steady, laced with concern. Malcolm gasped a deep, shuddering breath, in and out, trying to find his footing and ground himself in the baritone words on the other end of the line.

A knock at the door elicited a cry from Malcolm and he backed himself against the bed behind him. He’d lost where he was. Where was he? How did he get there? A voice came from the other end of the line, but he didn’t recognize it. It was telling him to breathe, to stay here, asking if he was safe. _I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know_. Malcolm didn’t know if he was saying those words out loud or not. There was a change in tone from the other end of the phone. When had he picked up the phone? Who was he talking to? Slowly, Malcolm lifted the phone to his ear and said, “Hello?” His voice was small, terrified, something unlike Gil had heard since the kid was ten.

“Malcolm, we’re almost there. You’re okay, kid. We’re almost there.” Gil fought to keep his voice steady as he listened to the terrified man on the other line, only able to think of the frightened ten-year-old that he had come to love.

There was another knock on the door and a male voice, low and excited, caused Malcolm to go still and silent.

“Come out, come out, dear Malcolm.”

>>>>>>>>>>

Gil swore as he heard his kid go silent. He looked to Dani in the driver’s seat, “Punch it,” he ordered, “the guy who kidnapped Malcolm is there.”

Dani’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel and she nodded.

Twenty minutes became ten as the team pulled into the small, seemingly run-down truck stop parking lot. A sheriff’s car was in the parking lot, which lifted a weight off of Gil’s shoulders. With any luck, the kid was still there.

Dani, JT, and Gil got out of the car, hands on their weapons as they go into the diner. A kindly older woman was at the register. Gil and the two detectives flashed their badges and she pointed up the stairs without a word. The three moved quietly up the stairs, Gil leading and peeking around the corner. Only one door was open, and Gil signaled his team to follow, weapons drawn. As they got closer, Gil heard soft crying. He arrived in the doorway and immediately holstered his weapon.

Malcolm was gripping his hair, his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth. The next thing Gil noticed was the body on the floor next to Malcolm, lying face down with a slowly growing pool of blood blossoming under it.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Malcolm was whispering over and over, staring wide-eyed at the body, and Gil realized for the first time that the hands in his hair were coated with blood.

Gil slowly flipped the body over and pressed his fingers to the man’s neck. Faintly, he felt the man’s pulse. He motioned to JT and Dani to call a bus and stop the bleeding, which seemed to be coming from a shard of glass embedded in the man’s abdomen. Gil moved to Malcolm, squatting down with his hands up. The kid looked at him, and his eyes widened in fear. “I’m not like you, it was an accident, I’m not like you,” he mumbled insistently. Gil nodded slowly, understanding the hallucination Malcolm was experiencing.

Gil remained where he was, and spoke in a slow, calm voice, the way one might speak to a frightened child hiding from a thunderstorm, “You’re safe now Malcolm, it’s okay. It’s just me, it’s Gil. Can you look at me, kid?”

After a moment, Malcolm’s eyes sparked in recognition and he let out a sob, “I killed him, oh God, I killed him, Gil.”

Gil moved forward and the other man fell into him, body wracking with broken, pained sobs. Gil wrapped his arms around Malcolm and rocked slowly, pressing a kiss into the kid’s hair before muttering softly, “It’s okay, Bright. You’re okay now. Deep breaths, kiddo.”

They sat like that for a bit, as Malcolm’s breathing slowly became more even and calm. Gil continued to whisper reassurances into his hair as he rocked side to side slowly. Dani and JT gave him a thumbs up, indicating that they were able to at least temporarily stop the man’s bleeding. Gil nodded, and the two detectives shot worried glances at Bright, who was still shaking, clinging to Gil’s suit jacket. The two went to the room’s door and stood, waiting for the EMTs.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The man continued to pound on the door, and Malcolm’s nerves turned to steel. He hung up the phone and went to the bathroom. Without hesitation, he punched his reflection in the mirror as hard as he could, sucking air through his teeth at the stinging of glass in his knuckles. He picked up the largest shard that he could find, and returned to his place by the bed, gripping the shard so tightly that his palm began bleeding.

As if on que, the door burst open, and the man stormed in, grinning sadistically when he saw Malcolm sitting in his own sick, a wild, cornered look in his eye. The man didn’t notice the makeshift dagger in Malcolm’s hand, and as he reached down to grab Malcolm by the shirt, Malcolm stood suddenly, using his momentum to shove the shard of glass into the man’s abdomen. The man let out a small gasp of surprise and slumped forward leaning onto Malcolm. Malcolm shoved the man off in disgust and sat back, breathing heavily.

As he stared at the man, the weight of what he had just done crashed into him, and he stared down at his hands, now covered in a sick mixture of the man’s blood and his own. His father flashed in the corner, smiling down at him, “ _My boy…_ ” he said, looking at Malcolm with the most pride he had seen since he had gotten an A on his fifth-grade anatomy test, just days before his father’s arrest.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God_. Malcolm gripped his hair, pulling his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth, trying to convince himself that his father wasn’t there, it was just a hallucination, but good God it just felt so _real_.

He was vaguely aware of a figure in front of him, bending over the body in front of him, but when he focused on the standing figure, all he saw was his father, “ _We’re the same,_ ” he whispered.

“No, I’m not like you. It was an accident, I’m not like you,” Malcolm repeated the phrase over and over, and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself, or his father.

A calm, familiar voice echoed in Malcom’s ears, “You’re safe now Malcolm, it’s okay. It’s just me, it’s Gil. Can you look at me, kid? Bright, try and look at me.”

Malcolm blinked slowly, and his father slowly morphed into Gil Arroyo, squatting down in front of him with his hands up. _I’m not a threat,_ he was saying.

Malcolm let out a sob, continuing to rock, “God, I killed him. Gil, I killed him.”

He fell forward, unable to hold himself up any longer. Strong arms caught him, holding him up, and began rocking him side to side slowly. The older man was talking to him, what was he saying? Malcolm decided it didn’t matter, because it was _Gil_. He was safe. His eyes began to flutter shut, and he allowed himself to relax.

>>>>>>>>>

_He was sprinting along the forest floor, riddled with pine needles, wet leaves, and sticks. His legs were on fire and his lungs screamed at him to stop, but he ignored them. He had to get as far away from that man as possible._

_The lake. It came into his vision all at once and he paused for a half second, before trudging into it. The cold sunk into his bones almost immediately, numbing him head to toe. His breath came in pained gasps as the frigid water closed around his chest, making it hard to breathe._

_He heard a frustrated scream from behind him, and submerged himself, praying that he hadn’t been seen. He swam to the opposite bank and hiked up a hill, a cry of relief expelling from his body when he got to the highway. Highway meant cars. Cars meant civilization._

_Another angry scream tore through his ears, and he was running._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 3! Chapter four is already in the works. Also, how about that premiere, huh? Thanks again for all the support!


	4. Get This Boy Some Therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thank you for reading. A bit of a shorter chapter this time around; I've hit a bit of a writer's block. Enjoy!

Malcolm whimpered fitfully in his sleep, his head moving from side to side on the pillow below him. Gil held his hand tightly, rubbing his thumb in small circles on the back of it. He had warned them not to sedate him, that he had night terrors and if he couldn’t wake up, his panic would be that much worse. But Malcolm had woken during surgery, thrashing and screaming, calling for Gil, for his mother, for Ainsley. They had needed to sedate him so they could treat the infected stab wounds in his sides and stitch them up. Gil doubted the kid would remember when he woke.

He murmured reassurances to the sleeping man, keeping his voice soft and low. He kept holding his breath, then gasping for air, almost in a methodical pattern.

“…his _mother_ , I demand to see him!”

Gil smiled softly at the familiar, albeit frantic, voice. He gave Malcolm’s hand a reassuring squeeze and went to the waiting room. A nurse had stopped Jessica Whitly in the waiting room, and was now being berated by the worried mother, who sounded more desperate than angry.

Upon seeing Gil, the worry lines on Jessica’s face melted away, and she ran to him, enveloping him in a hug. Gil held her tight, both of them existing in the moment with the knowledge that Malcolm was safe.

The two returned to Malcolm’s room, where the kid was sitting straight up on his bed, one hand over his newly-stitched stab wound, breathing heavily. He looked to Gil and Jessica, and for a moment it was as if he looked through them, seeing something just beyond reality that the other two were oblivious to. As quickly as it was there, it was gone, and his eyes sparked in recognition and turned misty. He smiled weakly, clearly still shaken from whatever nightmare he had just returned from, but keeping up an act, Gil knew, for his mother’s sake. He raised an eyebrow at the kid, who gave him a look that said, _later_.

Jessica bit back a sob of relief at the sight of her son, awake and aware, and sat on the edge of his bed, holding out her arms. Malcolm’s smile grew wider, more relaxed, and he fell into his mother’s hug. The two sat like that for a moment, Malcolm clinging to his mother’s clothes while she whispered assurances into his hair, occasionally pausing to press a kiss into the top of his head, tear lines tracking down her face.

Malcolm pulled away from his mother and looked to Gil. The emotion in his eyes clouded the usual bright blue, and Gil knew what he was going to ask before the question had left his mouth.

“Where’s the man? Is he…Did I…” Malcolm trailed off, leaving the rest of the question hanging in the air.

_Did I kill him?_

Gil shook his head, “He’s stable and in custody. There’s a twenty-four seven detail on him, kid. As soon as he recovers, he’s being charged at the very least with attempted assault and impersonating a police officer…” Gil left the sentence open, hoping for Malcolm to fill in the blank spaces of the situation so they could tack more charges on and lock the bastard up for a long time to come.

Malcolm, however, had stopped listening after “he’s stable.” The tension left his shoulders and he looked out the window, again appearing to see something just outside of what Gil could see. The older man could see the gears turning, working to gain a steady hold on information, only to come up short.

Malcolm looked back to his mother and Gil, shaking his head. “I keep having these nightmares, but as soon as I wake up, they’re gone. My subconscious is blocking me from this, and I can’t understand why.” The kid’s voice was hard and tense, two weeks of confusion and frustration sharpening the words.

Gil sat on the chair next to Malcolm’s bed, putting his hand over the kid’s, “It’ll come in time. You can’t rush these things, kid, you know that better than anybody.”

Jessica interjected before Malcolm had a chance to respond, “I have already scheduled you an appointment with Gabrielle, next week,” she held up a finger at Malcolm’s clear intent to argue, “and I do _not_ want to hear any objections to this, young man.”

Malcolm deflated a bit before nodding, and Gil was glad. The kid pretended he was fine all too often, and despite the circumstances, it was nice to see him accept that he needed to rely on other people, even just a little bit.

“Now,” Jessica smiled, satisfied, “who would like some horrendous hospital food? My treat.”


End file.
